


Heat of the Moment

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Burning, Destiel - Freeform, Fire, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-25 09:57:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1644629
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>9.22 AU. Dean goes with Sam and Cas to track down Josiah. Cas gets caught in the holy oil trap.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heat of the Moment

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to [this](https://soundcloud.com/itsacrimescene/sets/fire) for extra pain.  
> Also I have a [tumblr](tisacrimescene.tumblr.com).

Sam walks silently up to the ajar door. Light shines through the window and cracks around the door, and some song plays through. He grips his angel blade tighter, shoves open the door, and bolts inside. 

At first glance, the room appears empty to be empty, agaudy 90’s thing with shiny streamers and a punch bowl and “I’m in Heaven” playing. But of course, it isn’t empty. “The hell?” mutters Sam, dropping down on one knee to look at the charred human-shaped thing. He reaches out to turn its face towards him, feels the heat, and pulls his hand back. It’s horribly burned, the ears deformed, the skin red and black, flaking crusts only just forming.

Then he sees the trenchcoat.

* * *

Dean’s cell rings, too loud in the hard, silent basement. “Dammit, Sam, whadda—”

“Dean. Get up here. Now.” There’s something deadly serious about Sam’s voice that shuts Dean up. He stuffs the First Blade into his jacket. “On my way,” he says after Sam gives directions.

Dean hustles there as fast as he can. He bangs open the door, looks at Sam, looks at where Sam’s eyes are fixed.

Dean doesn’t even need the trenchcoat.

“Cas?” He asks softly, jaw shaking, kneeling by the thing’s face. “Cas, we’re gonna get you out of here, okay? Sam, help me lift him.” When Sam doesn’t move, Dean shouts, not looking up because he can’t show his baby brother the tears gated in his eyes. “Sam, help me get him!”

Sam’s eyes are purposely darting to anything but the thing that was Cas and the thing that was Dean. His brain is racing a thousand miles an hour, looking for possible traps for them with Cas as the horrible bait. His eyes find a tilted, empty jar rigged to a lighter and suspended in a booby trap above the door. “Holy oil,” he whispers, fitting the jar and the lighter and the unburned clothes and Cas into the puzzle. “Oh.” He would have time for a sharp exhale and a sarcastic smile but this is Cas, for God’s (whatever God there may be) sake.

“SAM!” yells Dean, reaching for Cas but not wanting to touch him for fear of causing him even more pain. He remembers his father’s yells from when he burned himself hunting a changeling, how Dean tried to bandage it but only made it worse, how he drove his father to the hospital even though he was two years under the legal driving age and lied to the nurses about some creme brulee accident like he’d been lying his whole life. Dean remembers all too well how touching a burn only makes it worse. HIs hands tremble inches above Castiel, caught in a terrible limbo of wanting to help but not quite knowing how.

A tear drops onto the trenchcoat.

Sam thinks about popping Dean’s bubble of denial but leaves the room instead, unable to watch his older brother crumble.

Suddenly the flayed flesh tenses up, drawing in a ragged breath. Cas’s eyes fly open, the irises glowing with angel grace where the bluest blue should be.

“Hello, Dean,” says that all-too-familiar raspy voice.

“Cas!” Dean’s mouth twitches, the ghost of a smile flying over his face. “Cas, we’re gonna get out outta here. Can you—”

“Dean, we both know—

“Don’t say that. Don’t you say that. I am not losing you. Not here, not tonight.”

The charred remains of Cas’ eyebrows make to frown but the movement dims the grace and they relax. “Dean, we can’t waste time. The holy fire is burning up my grace.” Dean’s eyes, darting down Cas’ broken body, return to flick between Cas’ eyes, the minutes—probably seconds—of grace left in them draining, fading away far too fast. “Metatron is—”

He arches back, mouth open in a silent scream. Hie eyes are dimmer than ever when he locks eyes with Dean, straining, and says, “Dean, I—

* * *

The light fades.

“Cas? Cas?” Dean says softly, unbelieving. HIs name turns into a litany, a prayer no one will hear anymore. Dean bends over the body and wraps his hands in the dirty, unburnt trenchcoat. They curl into fists and he nearly rips in half, furious that the fire could dare to leave something so  _replaceable_  and take the one thing precious. Dean folds himself into Cas, the heat burning his skin, because he knows that he can’t hurt Cas anymore.

His tears sizzle where they touch the angel’s skin.

He kisses Cas, really kisses him, on the lips, all the while wondering what it would be like to kiss those lips while they were still smooth, what it would be like to feel Cas pressing back into him, what it would be like to not come away with ashes on his lips. He does it while saying a thousand “I love yous” and a million more “I’m sorries”.

* * *

Sometime he looks up from the cooked husk of his lover to see black particles drifting down around Cas’ body, landing in the shape of wings. It’s as though the fire is smoldering outwards, turning his wings to black ashes as it goes. The ashes become visible, shatter off the wings, and float to the ground like cold white snowflakes. They burn Castiel’s wings into the unholy ground.

Angel’s wings are supposed to be burned into the ground in a brilliant flash of light as they die, one final huzzah. Castiel gets no such honor. His wings, broken and with half the feathers missing, are slowly scorched into the ground in the presence of a crying, broken human. Castiel gets no last flash of glory, only Dean Winchester standing in a room full of angel’s ashes.

* * *

Dean carries what’s left of Castiel out to the Impala. It’s light as a feather, but Dean walks with a thousand pounds. Sam opens the trunk. “Open the back door.” Sam looks at Dean. “Open it!” Sam does. Dean lays Cas inside with the utmost care, almost closing the door but stopping at the last moment to lean against his car, head pressed against arm. Then he shuts it softly and gets into the driver’s seat.

“Dean, you are not driving.” Dean doesn’t move. Sam doesn’t hand him the keys. He pulls Dean out of the driver’s seat and leads him around to shotgun. Sam slams the empty trunk, gets in, starts the engine. They pull out of town in silence until Dean can’t stand the roaring in his head and jabs at the radio, knocking the tuning dial out of place. “It’s too co-o-old outside, for angels to fly,” the singer croons. Dean nearly punches the radio to get it to stop. The tape deck panicks and starts to spit out a hiccupy version of “Carry On My Wayward Son”.

Dean looks back to check on Cas.

Sam decides not to mention that they will have to burn the body.

 


End file.
